don' have no place to go back to, either, and wouldn' no foster home take him in, 'cause he burn that last place down.
“Li'l sweet piece like that, you reckon he gon' be somebody's butt boy his first night. But got-damn if the li'l fucker couldn' fight like a man. Ka-ra-tay! He coulda taught Jackie Chan a move or two. First dude mess with him, kid kick his cracker ass just usin' his feet.
“Then when them bandages come off and he can use his hands, nobody fuck with him, nobody call him out. So he start callin' dudes out his own self. Now you take me back then-back then Caz like to fight. And some dudes, they love to fight. But little Max, he need to fight.
“One night, finely he call me out. My auntie, she come out to visit me, bring me a box a homemade cookies. Max, he say how come you don' give me no cookies, dude? Share and share alike. I act all scared and shit, say here, man, take all the fuckin' cookies you want. Then when he got both hands full of cookies, I jump him. Bloody his nose, kick the shit out of him while he still down, cause I don' want no part of him after he get up.
“Now you figure, after somethin' like that, dude gonna wait his chance, get some back. Not Max. It's like he my asshole buddy from there on. Follow me aroun' like a puppy dog-how you do that to me, Caz, how you do that? What I'm gonna tell him, wait til your man got his hands full of cookies and too greedy to let go? Got-damn, he'd a kicked my ass good, he figure that out. So I make some shit up 'bout countin' back from ten, and jumpin' your man before you get to one. Anytime 'fore you get to one, so long as you don't make up your mind too soon.”
“I have to tell you, Caz, you just might have been onto something there,” said Pender, thinking of how fast Casey-Max-had jumped him in the holding cell.
“Got-damn if he don' think so. He practice and practice-he just be out there feedin' his chickens-man, he love them chickens- and alla sudden, voom! — he bust a move. Standin' in the chow line, voom! — he bust a move. Got so good at it, finely wouldn' nobody on the ranch have no part of him, so they put him on the boxin' team. Unde- fuckin-feated. They hadn'a cut him loose, he'd a been junior lightweight Gold Gloves, maybe Oh-lympics, no lie.”
Buckley pressed the infuser again, but not enough time had elapsed. “Fuck me,” he muttered.
“You say they cut him loose?” said Pender quickly. “How'd that work?”
“Well, like I tol' you, he never shoulda been in Juvie in the first place-all this time, he on'y waitin' trial. Finely the ol' lady he burn up, she get better enough, finely she tessify he was savin' her ass- say the man Max kilt, he was rapin' her. Say she call for help, Max jump him with a ice pick. Say the fire was a accident.”
Again he pressed the button with his thumb. This time it clicked. Buckley closed his eyes and sighed with relief.
Pender waited another few seconds, then pressed on. “Do you remember her name?”
“Naw. All I remember, one day Max' PD show up, take him away to live with her.”
“Have you seen him since Juvie?” asked Pender.
“Thass a good question.”
Oh-ho. “How do you mean?”
“Last year. I got my parole, account of my liver cancer. Compassionate parole, they call it, but it's just, you dyin' and too sick to do nobody no harm, they don' wanna have to take care a you. You right 'bout that prison hospital-man, thass a hell hole. I'da been anybody else, I coulda got one a them transplants, but you a con, they don' even put you on the list.
“So I been out about a month, I got me a room and board down by the river-my auntie done passed. I guess maybe it's July. I'm comin' outta the drugstore-the ol' one on Jackson Street, near the courthouse-I see this dude comin' in. I profile him pretty good, 'cause I'm thinking, got-damn, sure look like little Max. On'y he's too old to be Max-all gray-ass.
“And damn if he don' eyeball me too, like maybe he's thinkin' that sure looks like ol Caz Buckley from Juvie, on'y it's way too old to be Caz. On account a I was down about a hunnerd ten, hunnerd twenty, no hair, skin all yellow, color of a old Laker unie. But he don' say nothin' and I don' say nothin'. On'y now you tell me cops is lookin' for him, so coulda been it really was him, on'y in disguise.”
Buckley was at the end of his strength. His eyes had closed again, and his whisper was barely audible.
“Beg pardon?” Pender had to lean over to hear the last few words. His face was less than a foot from the yellow eyes when they finally opened again.
“I said, we done now, you and me?” asked Buckley.
Pender nodded.
“You ain' gon' make no trouble with my parole?” He clicked the morphine button again.
“No.”
“Do it help any, what I tol' you?”
“It helps. It helps more than you know,” said Pender, with a catch in his voice. He wasn't sure where all the emotion was coming from. It had something to do with the dying man in front of him, sure, but it was more than that. He knew this was his last case. He also knew that with the information Buckley had given him, he could break it-soon. It was a bittersweet realization, a valedictory sort of feeling.
“Good,” said Buckley, as the morphine eased him again. “Like the man say, do the right thing.”
“You did, Caz.” Pender patted Buckley's shoulder. “Anything I can do for you before I go?”
“Yeah,” said Buckley. “Gimme back the call button.”
“Oh-sorry. Here you go.”
“And lemme know how it turn out-you know, if you ketch him.”
Pender promised that he would, then hurried out of the room. The elevator door opened before he reached it, and the gray-haired black nurse stepped out, pushing a medication cart before her.
“You all right?” she asked him.
Pender nodded, adjusting his Stetson as he stepped into the elevator.
“Will you be coming back?”
Another nod.
“Don't wait too long,” she called, as the elevator door closed. She hoped he'd understood what she meant- that Buckley didn't have long to live. This big bald cowboy seemed like a strange fellow to be visiting poor Caz, but they were obviously close. She could have sworn she saw a tear in the man's eye.
74
Being a psychiatrist involved a certain amount of acting. In some ways, a therapy session was like a long improvisation. The trouble was, Irene wasn't sure she was a good enough actress for the role she had to play.
Because as the morning session wore on, it had become clear to her just how high a price she would have to pay to maintain Christopher's dominance over Max and the other alters. Not only would she have to actively encourage his transference, she would have to feign a countertransference. It wasn't enough that Christopher was in love with her-she had to convince him that she was in love with him.
“My poor Christopher. It must have been so difficult for you, living with Miss Miller after what she'd done to Mary.”
“Not really. I went away for a few months.”
“Where were you?”
“It's hard to describe to somebody who hasn't been there. It's like the place you go when you're sleeping but not dreaming. Time doesn't pass.”
“And when you woke up, when you came back?”
“I opened my eyes in the morning, and I was me.”
“Was it of your own volition, do you think?”
“No. They needed me.”
“They?”
“Max and Miss Miller.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I was only there for part of it.”
